The scent of eucalyptus oil still hung in the air when Marty counted the morning's take. Twenty-three dollars from post-yoga smoothie sales—actual revenue before noon, a phenomenon he'd previously associated with Christmas miracles and clerical errors.
His neck brace sat loose against his collar, adjusted to accommodate the unfamiliar sensation of optimism. Behind the bar, Jess packed her portable speaker while three sweaty yoga students nursed protein shakes at tables that hadn't seen morning customers in years.
"Same time tomorrow?" Jess asked, rolling her mat with ceremonial precision.
"If you can stand the sticky floors."
"Honey, I've taught in parking lots and strip mall spaces. This place has character." She gestured around the bar with genuine affection. "Plus, my students love the authenticity."
Devon burst through the front door carrying a fresh stack of flyers, his enthusiasm undimmed by the morning's chaos. "Pre-Beer Yoga!" he announced, waving papers like victory flags. "I'm adding it to all the promotional materials. We're creating a whole lifestyle brand here."
Marty winced. "Let's not get ahead of—"
Movement outside the front window cut him short. Norman Pike stood on the sidewalk, extending a measuring tape against the bar's exterior wall with the methodical precision of someone documenting evidence.
His clipboard caught the morning light as he scribbled notes, occasionally glancing at his tablet before returning to his measurements. Even through the grimy glass, his disapproval radiated like heat from asphalt.
Marty's neck brace tightened two notches automatically.
"Aw, shit," he muttered.
Stacy responded by launching into the opening guitar riff of "Bad Boys" at low volume, her lights pulsing red and blue in simulation of police flashers.
The measuring tape snapped closed with an audible crack. Norman straightened his tie, adjusted his clipboard, and approached the front door with the measured gait of someone preparing to deliver bad news.
Three precise knocks echoed through the bar.
"Come in," Marty called, though his voice cracked on the second word.
Norman entered like he was stepping into a crime scene, his nose wrinkling at the lingering eucalyptus-and-stale-beer combination. His eyes swept the room, cataloging every detail—the yoga mats stacked against the wall, the smoothie glasses on tables, Devon's flyers scattered across the bar.
"Mr. Grissom." Norman clutched his clipboard like a shield. "I'm here in my capacity as Neighborhood Compliance Liaison."
Slugger looked up from his baseball cards, grinning. "Hey there, Norman. How's retirement treating you?"
"It's Inspector Pike now," Norman replied stiffly. "And this is official business."
Devon bounced over with characteristic enthusiasm. "Official business! Are we getting featured in some kind of community newsletter? Because I've got these amazing flyers—"
Norman held up one hand while flourishing his clipboard with the other. "I'm here to discuss numerous violations of municipal code that have been brought to my attention."
The bar fell silent except for the hum of refrigeration and Stacy's warning music.
Norman began circling the room like a shark, extending his measuring tape to check ceiling heights, doorway widths, and distances between tables. Each measurement was accompanied by muttered notations about "code subsection violations" and "zoning discrepancies."
Marty followed behind him, his neck brace tightening with each measurement. "What kind of violations?"
"Where shall I begin?" Norman positioned himself in the center of the room for maximum dramatic effect, clearing his throat theatrically. "Violation number one: operating a fitness facility without proper health department certification."
"It's yoga," Jess protested from her corner.
"Unlicensed physical therapy services," Norman continued, reading from his clipboard. "Violation number two: serving food and beverages without current food service permits."
"They're protein shakes," Devon said. "From powder."
"Violation number three: insufficient lumens in egress pathways. Four: non-compliant ambient noise levels during posted quiet hours. Five: inadequate ventilation for physical exertion activities."
The list continued. Seventeen violations in total, each more obscure than the last, ranging from "improper signage font ratios" to "unlicensed therapeutic essential oil diffusion."
With each accusation, Norman's voice grew more pompous, his posture straighter. He was enjoying this.
Tasha materialized from her corner booth, moving with predatory quiet to position herself behind Norman. Her eyes fixed on his tablet screen as she read over his shoulder.
"And finally," Norman announced with theatrical flourish, "the most serious violation: operating outside approved zoning parameters. This establishment is licensed as a drinking establishment, not a wellness center."
He produced his tablet with the air of someone unveiling evidence at trial. "The digital compliance ticketing system allows me to submit these violations directly to the municipal authority. Immediate business license suspension is mandatory for establishments with more than fifteen violations."
Jess stepped forward, her face pale. "That's the same system they used to shut down my studio."
"Don't let him submit that form," she whispered urgently to Marty.
Slugger casually moved to block the door while Devon created a distraction by loudly explaining the upcoming open mic night to no one in particular. The bar subtly closed ranks around Marty as Norman grew more self-important.
"This establishment," Norman declared, finger hovering over his tablet's submit button with dramatic pause, "will be optimized for community standards. I'm reporting to higher authorities who will ensure proper compliance."
The word "optimized" hung in the air like smoke.
Marty's moment of genuine fear crystallized as his neck brace reached its tightest setting. Then his eyes fell on the grant paperwork tucked behind the register—papers he'd forgotten about in the morning's chaos.
He lunged for them with clumsy desperation, nearly knocking over a stack of smoothie glasses.
"Wait!" He yanked the papers free, presenting them to Norman with shaking hands. "Cultural Preservation Initiative. We're protected."
Norman barely glanced at the paperwork. "Local noise ordinances supersede—"
Then he saw the letterhead. His tablet lowered as he read more carefully, his smug expression shifting to confusion.
"This is impossible," he muttered, comparing the signature on the grant paperwork to something on his own tablet. "Elliot Crane signed this himself."
The name seemed to carry weight that surprised even Norman. He frantically shuffled through his own documents, looking for some loophole, some technicality that would restore his authority.
"I'll need to verify this with the appropriate authorities," he stammered, his earlier confidence evaporating.
Marty straightened to his full height, the grant papers held like a victory flag. "You do that, Inspector."
Jess stepped forward, her voice sharp with controlled anger. "While you're verifying, maybe you can explain why some establishments get cultural protection while others get disappeared overnight."
"The system has protocols—"
"The system has favorites," Slugger interrupted with perfect timing. "Like changing the rules mid-inning after the home team takes the lead."
Devon bounded over with genuine enthusiasm. "Hey, since you're here anyway, want to sign up for open mic night? We're always looking for new talent. Maybe you could do some spoken word about municipal codes!"
Norman backed toward the door, clutching his tablet defensively. "This is a temporary reprieve. It doesn't mean you're in compliance with all regulations."
Tasha spoke for the first time, her voice quiet but carrying an unmistakable threat. "Maybe don't upload that report just yet. Wouldn't want there to be a... database error."
Norman paused at the door, something in her tone making him reconsider. He glanced back at the bar with genuine puzzlement, as if trying to solve a equation that didn't balance.
"There must be some mistake," he muttered. "This will be rectified."
The door swung shut behind him, leaving the bar in heavy silence.
Marty stared at the grant paperwork in his hands, seeing it clearly for the first time. Official seals, administrative signatures, legal language that transformed his dive bar into something worth protecting.
"So we're officially special now," Devon announced with characteristic enthusiasm.
"Some places get saved," Jess said bitterly, "and others don't."
Tasha moved to the window, watching Norman's retreating figure. "Being special makes you valuable. But valuable to who?"
Before anyone could answer, Stacy began playing a song about sanctuary, her lights pulsing in colors that felt less like celebration and more like warning.
Outside, Norman's phone pressed to his ear, his animated gestures suggesting urgent conversation with someone important enough to make him forget his usual composure.
Across the street, a small drone hovered near the traffic light, its camera lens adjusting with mechanical precision to focus on The Rusty Tap's front door.